by Evelyn Glass
“Arrangements for what?” I ask. I jump to my feet and stand close to him. It’s like the anxiety and anger emanate from him in a scent. I breathe it in and all I want to do is make him feel better. “What’s happening?”
“We need to leave,” he says. “There should be—ah, good.”
The house trembles and the blades of a helicopter, sounding like a continuous rush of wind, whirrs around and around from above us. The chandelier rattles and the TV rocks from side to side on its stand.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask.
Samson nods grimly. “It is,” he says.
I place my hand on his shoulders in an attempt to still his skittishness. His eyes glance everywhere and nowhere, never resting on a single place, and his chest rises and falls in big gasping breaths. I have never seen him so panicked. It frightens me. Up until now I’ve assumed that Samson was constantly in control. And he clearly is, if he’s called a helicopter to take you away. That’s true, I know that’s true, and yet he seems slightly unhinged.
“What happened out there?” I say, squeezing his shoulders.
He heaves a sigh, lowers his gaze, and mutters: “I couldn’t kill her, Anna. I just couldn’t. She told me what happened to her when she was taken, and it . . .” He tells me all of it, about the man torturing Anna, raping her, and then her escape. He tells it to me in a cold monotone voice, but beneath the monotone is pain. “I was looking down at her and thinking about all the pain she’s had to deal with. And she’s a woman, Anna. A woman. I’ve never killed a woman in my life. Never even hurt one. I don’t know.”
I move my hands up to his face and pull him down to my chest, stroking his head. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “We’ll find another way to get rid of her. We’ll find another way to be safe. You don’t have to worry, Samson.”
After a minute, a man wearing overalls and a helmet clears his throat from the entrance of the living room. Samson and I turn. It’s the pilot, I guess. He nods shortly to both of us and then addresses Samson. “It’s all ready, Mr. Black,” he says. “Are you sure you can—”
“Yes,” Samson says. “You can go.”
“Yes, sir.”
The pilot retreats, leaves the house. I look up at Samson, a smile tugging at my lips. “Why has the pilot left?” I say.
He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “I’m going to fly us. I can’t have anybody knowing where we’ve gone, not even paid-off men.”
“But—you’re going to fly us? How?”
“I was in the military for two years,” he says. “Seventeen to nineteen. But I had to leave because Uncle Richard got himself into some serious trouble. I was almost in big trouble for it, actually. You can’t just walk out of your barracks and never come back. But one of my uncle’s contacts knew some military men, and it was all settled. But I’d already gotten the skills I needed, flying a helicopter being one of the more exciting ones, I guess.”
I shake my head in wonder.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Samson asks.
“Because you’re so damn full of surprises, Samson, that’s why.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
I wave at the dresses, the jewelry, and then nod up to the ceiling, toward the helicopter. “A good thing, definitely,” I say.
He’s a frickin’ helicopter pilot, too! I think. “I’ve never been in a helicopter,” I say.
“Well,” he replies, tweaking my nose, “there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”
###
We walk up the stairs, me holding a bag which contains my belongings from my apartment and my gifts, to a ladder which leads to the roof. Samson climbs up the ladder and shoves it open. A square of sunlight hits me straight in the eyes so that I have to shield them with my hand.
I lift the bag, he leans down and takes it from me. Then I climb the ladder and emerge onto a landing pad on the roof. I look down at the houses below and see a few people looking up at the helicopter in confusion, a strange disturbance to the normal routine of their Real Housewives life. Samson walks up to the helicopter the same way as a man walks up to his car, with complete ease and lack of fear, as though piloting such a dangerous machine is run-of-the-mill.
He turns when he reaches the helicopter. “Are you coming?” he says.
“Yes,” I say, following him.
He opens the cockpit door and helps me into the seat, straps me in, and puts the headset over my ears. All sound is cut away immediately. The squawking of birds and the laughter of children down the street and even my own breathing, all of it silent with the headphones over my ears. Samson climbs in beside me, straps himself in and dons his own headphones. He flips a switch, and then I can hear him, close to my ears.
“How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” I admit.
“Don’t worry,” Samson says. “I’ve practiced since I left the army. Every weekend for a few years, and then on and off after that. I know what I’m doing. Do you trust me?”
“I do,” I say, without having to think about it.
My trust for him is so absolute now that I don’t have to give it any thought. I don’t have to question it. It’s a fact which sits inside of me just as the fact of my own heartbeat does; it’s just something I accept. Strange as it is, I trust Samson more than I’ve trusted any man before him. But it started the same with Eric, didn’t it? Trusting him, loving him. But he was pretending all along, wasn’t he? What if Samson is the same? What if all of this—the kindness, the strength, the trust—what if all of it is just an illusion? What if he’s tricking you? But I don’t entertain the thought for long. I trust him, and that’s all, trust him implicitly and completely.
“Good,” Samson says. “Because if you can’t trust your man, who can you trust?”
“So you’re my man now?” I say.
“Yes, and you’re my woman.”
I smile, his words filling my chest with warmth. I’m Samson Black’s woman. No matter what happens, no matter what stress and heartache and drama lies ahead, nothing can take that away from me.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Ask me again when we’re up in the air.”
He chuckles, and then starts flicking switches rapidly, so quick it almost looks like he’s flicking them at random. But when I look into his face I see that he knows what he’s doing, see that he’s done this before. The uncertainty which gripped him only minutes ago when he stumbled into the house is gone. Even the blood matted to his hair doesn’t worry me. I think Samson Black could do many things with a bloody head most men couldn’t do when unharmed. He’s an anomaly, a man apart from other men, the kind of man a woman rarely meets in real life.
Perhaps absurdly, I find that I’m glad Eric was stuffed into the trunk of my car, that his psychotic, tortured ex-girlfriend chose me for her games. Because if she hadn’t, if she had chosen another way to torment him, he never would’ve showed up on my doorstep one evening with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza.
Then the blades start revolving, and all thought is pushed from my mind. Chh-chh-chh-chh, they sound above us, around us, penetrating even the thickness of the headphones. Quicker, quicker: chh-chh-chh-chh-chhchhhhhhhhhhhh! The helicopter rises from the roof of the house. There’s a moment where it seems stuck to the surface, and then it breaks away and we’re ascending so fast my belly drops.
###
It’s difficult for me to track where we’re going. Every time I look out of the window, down at the landscape below, a horrible sense of the height grips me. I see the city, and the next time I look, we’re hurtling over forest. I try and think where that might be, but I can’t. There are too many possibilities. Somewhere wild, somewhere hidden, that’s for sure.
Samson pilots the machine expertly, not once making me wonder if he knows what he’s doing. His two-year stint in the army and his training afterwards has paid off. I watch him as he holds the joystick, watch his strong face and
his impossibly bright blue eyes, watch as he makes minor adjustments.
As I watch him, heat presses between my legs, the kind of heat which cannot be ignored. He’s in control again, I think, and the heat presses with more urgency. He’s in control. He’s not panicked. He’s at ease. He’s so damn cool.
“You’re staring at me,” he says, his voice a phantom in the headset.
“Am I?” I ask innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, sure,” he grins. “I bet you don’t. Thing about killers, Anna, is that we have good periphery vision. You’ve been staring at me for five minutes now. And—what is your hand doing?”
I bring my attention to my body. He’s right; my hand is between my legs, rubbing as I watch him. “Oh,” I giggle, head swilling with pleasure. “I didn’t even realize.”
“I’m jealous,” he says. “I’m sitting here and you’re having all the fun.”
“Well . . .”
With my free hand I reach across and slide my hand down his pants. He groans, a deep, animal groan which sounds loudly and maddeningly in my ears. I pull down his pants and his underwear, tuck them under his balls, and look at his rock-hard cock.
“You’re always hard for me,” I say.
“I can’t help it. You’re too damn sexy.”
Still rubbing my pussy, I lean over and take his cock in my mouth. I suck it hard, all the while rubbing my clit, massaging it, thinking, he’s flying a helicopter and his cock is in my mouth, his huge hard cock is buried deep in my mouth. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!
His moans get louder and louder, urging me on, and I suck him harder, pushing my head down, feeling the huge bulk of him. My pussy is on fire, my fingers toying with my clit. Then Samson reaches over keeping one hand on the joystick, and pulls my hand away from my crotch. He slides his hand down there and presses down on my clit with his fingers. I feel the wetness of myself; he pushes his fingers up and inside of me, burying them deep, so deep they touch my sweet spot. Three fingers in my pussy, stretching me.
“Fuck,” I moan, taking my mouth from his cock, spit and pre-come falling from my lips. “Fuck, fuck.”
“Come for me, Anna,” he says calmly. “You’re not allowed to suck my cock again until you come for me, do you understand?”
“Y—yes!” I cry, as his fingers wiggle inside of me, pushing my sweet spot.
He keeps going and soon it’s like the tips of his fingers are fire, fire deep inside of me and all I can feel is heat. I close my eyes and I see red, bright red, and I feel the juddering of the helicopter, feel the way it travels up his arms, his fingers, and inside of me. Soon it’s like the helicopter is shifting just to pleasure me, the immense vibrations of the machinery reverberating deep in my pussy.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice strained. “Do it. I need your lips on my cock. Come for me and then suck my fucking cock.”
“Yes—yes—y—y—y—!”
Words are impossible. I can’t speak. I can barely think. All I know, all that exists, is the trembling heat between my legs. I bite down so hard I feel blood in my mouth, but I don’t care. I’m in his helicopter and he’s going to make me come. I’m in his helicopter and he’s going to make me come. I’m in his helicopter and he’s going to—
I don’t even know what the heat is anymore. It’s just there. I’m floating atop the euphoria, buoyed up by it, utterly lost in it. I bite down harder and a fresh wave of blood touches my tongue but I can’t feel it, can’t taste it. All I can feel is the heat, his hand, the quivering, the reverberations. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I’m close now, so close I can feel it building like a wave inside of me. A wave of pleasure which crashes again and again against a dam, the dam close to bursting. The wave builds and builds, higher and fiercer, as the heat turns to a fierce inferno.
Then I open my mouth, try to scream, but can’t. I scream silently instead, a hollow non-sound, as the dam bursts and the wave crashes inside of me, over and over. My body pulses as the orgasms moves through me, my legs trembling and my belly tightening and my head falling into his lap, his cock resting against my lips. The orgasm lasts longer than any I’ve had before, it seems to last forever.
Then, finally, it passes, and I open my eyes and look up at Samson. He glances down at me and then back into the air.
“Jesus Christ, Anna,” he says. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen in my life, the sexiest woman I can even imagine.”
I lean up, panting. My body is flushed, exhausted.
After a half-minute, I get my breath back and look down at his cock. It’s still rock-hard, so hard I can see veins standing out on his skin.
I lean down again, taking it in my mouth. I massage his balls and suck him up and down, up and down, as if I’m bobbing for apples. I suck him as deeply and as quickly as I can, the tip of his cock hitting the back of my throat. I want him to come so fucking badly. I’ve never enjoyed giving blowjobs with any other man—I’ve met few women who have—but with Samson it’s different. His moans in my ears make me think, that’s me. I’m making him moan like that. I’m his woman and I’m giving him that pleasure.
“I’m close,” he breathes. “Fuck, fuck, I’m close.”
He doesn’t need to tell me. I’m sure I can feel it in his cock. It gets even bigger in my mouth, as though it’s about to burst. I suck and suck and suck, lost in the act of it, lost like I’ve never been lost before, taking my own pleasure from the act of giving him pleasure. I push my mouth down until I feel his balls against my lips, until my eyes bulge and I’m choking.
“Oh—fuck.”
All at once, his come releases, a quick shot of it, and then a steady stream shoots into the back of my throat. Just as I’ve never enjoyed blowjobs before, I’ve never really been comfortable swallowing the aftermath of one. But just like with everything, it’s different with Samson. I swallow it eagerly, thinking about the pleasure I’ve just given him, thinking about my man having the best orgasm of his life. It’s salty, but I don’t care. I swallow it all and when he’s done I lean back in my chair, tired and satisfied. Not even the ache in my jaw causes me any discomfort.
“Fucking hell,” Samson sighs, glancing at me and then back to the sky. “You’re . . . incredible. Where did that come from?”
“I couldn’t help myself,” I answer honestly. “I just couldn’t.”
“Well, anytime you can’t help yourself, go ahead,” he laughs.
It’s a carefree laugh, the laugh of a person who’s just lost themselves in pleasure, and soon I join in on the laugh.
“Are we still on course?” I ask once the laughter has passed.
“Miraculously, yes,” he says. “Though I have no idea how. I swear, I should get a reward for that.”
“What—the mutual masturbation piloting award?”
He laughs again, loud and comforting in my ears, and I giggle along with him.
Chapter Eighteen
Samson
I set us down on a landing pad in the middle of the woods, a stone’s throw from a small log cabin I’ve kept as a safe house for a few years now. That was something Uncle Richard and Dad never realized. They assumed they were invincible, that they’d never need anywhere where they could hideout. Or maybe it was just that they weren’t rich enough. The cold truth is I’ve been far more successful than either of them ever was.
I’m groggy and tired from Anna’s wild blowjob. I hadn’t expected it. She was like a firework, exploding without warning and stunning me. She is amazing, sensational, the best woman I’ve ever known. As I land, I look over at her. She smiles at me, a smile which brightens her face, and all over again I feel close to her, closer to her than I had felt to any woman, closer than I have any right to. She’s mine, now; I know that as a fact, immutable, something deep-set inside of me. If anyone tried to harm her, they’d pay.
‘And yet you let River go,’ Richard chuckles. ‘You want to protect her and yet you let the one person who wants to do her
harm go free. How does that work, eh?’
I ignore the voice. It’s too honest, too stark.
I climb from the helicopter, walk around to Anna’s side, and help her down.
She hops onto the landing pad and stretches her neck from side to side, stretches out her arms and legs. “Where are we?” she asks, looking around. Trees stretch all around us for miles, trees which stand close together and throw deep shadows into the underbrush. Birds sit perched on branches and as we watch, a squirrel darts through a pile of brown fallen leaves. Far away, something barks into the air.
“We’re safe,” I tell her. “There’s no way anybody will find us.”
“Then it doesn’t matter where we are.” She smiles. “Just the two of us, out here. I hope this isn’t all some elaborate ploy to get me out here alone, undefended.”
